


Love Me and Mend

by HermioneGirl96



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, References to Shakespeare, Sick Simon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 07:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13608282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermioneGirl96/pseuds/HermioneGirl96
Summary: Baz and Simon were going to tour the Globe Theatre, but Simon has the flu. Since Baz is invulnerable to germs, he's the ideal caretaker, even if he does leave for a bit to get his Shakespeare fix. One-shot, Baz's POV, set the year after Carry On.





	Love Me and Mend

It’s midday on Saturday when I swing by to pick up Simon. We have tickets to tour the Globe Theatre, a replica of the one where Shakespeare’s company, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, acted 400 years ago. The tour was my idea—Simon isn’t nearly as interested in Shakespeare as I am, and he seemed bemused when I suggested it, but he says he’s more than willing to follow me anywhere I want to go. I’m glad he’s coming, because I haven’t seen him since Wednesday. He’s been busy with homework, and last night I went to a party thrown by one of my classmates. I offered to skip it and spend the night with Simon, but in the end we agreed that it’s important for us to have our own friends and to cultivate lives outside of each other. 

I knock when I get to the flat. I could just as easily use _**Open sesame**_ , but the last time I did that Bunce gave me a dressing-down for being “presumptive and intrusive,” as she put it. 

After a 20-second wait, Simon opens the door, clad in pyjamas, hair mussed. I immediately wrap him in a hug, as I usually do when it’s been over 24 hours since we last saw each other. “Overslept?” I mutter into his hair. 

Simon steps back, out of my arms. “You don’t want to do that.”

I frown. “Do what?”

“Hug me.”

“Why not?”

“I’m sick,” he says, and that’s when I really take in the brightness of his eyes, the flush in his cheeks, and the gravel in his voice. 

“So?” I want to take him in my arms again and hold him until he feels better, but I resist the urge. (Which is easy. I have so much practice.) 

“I’m _contagious_ ,” he says, and coughs. 

“I’m _dead_ ,” I reply. 

“No you’re not.” Simon sniffles.

I sigh. “I’m immortal, then. The salient point is that I can’t get sick.”

He frowns. “But you said you were ill last fall, when you didn’t come back to Watford.”

“I’d gone six weeks without food. I was physically a wreck. ‘Ill’ was the best one-word explanation I could come up with. But germs hold no threat for me.”

I’m not quite done with my sentence when Simon starts coughing. And coughing. And coughing. It sounds like his lungs are trying to force their way out through his throat.

When the coughing fit ends, I lay one of my perpetually cold hands on Simon’s sweaty forehead. Merlin and Morgana. He’s always hot to the touch, but now he’s _blazing_. “Crowley, Snow,” I say, thinking that his name has never been less apt. “You’re burning up.”

He sniffles and says, “I _told_ you.”

I put my arms around him, below his wings, and hoist him over my shoulder. “Time for bed, Snow,” I say, and then I carry him into his bedroom. Between my super strength and my invulnerability to germs, I have to admit that being a vampire is really convenient at times like this.

Simon’s bedclothes are a mess, which makes it easier to lay him down without putting him on top of them. After I set him down (on his side, careful not to trap his wings), I ask, “Blankets or no blankets?”

“No blankets,” he says. “I’m already overheating.”

I sit down on the edge of his bed and tangle one hand in his hair. Then Simon says “Baz?” Even though his voice is half an octave lower than usual, I recognize this tone. It’s his timid, “I’m about to ask a favour but I don’t deserve kindness” tone. 

“Yes?”

“This is a weird question, but could you touch my face? Your hands are so cold.”

“Of course.” I swivel to face him, and then I cup his cheeks in my hands. Crowley. I’m not used to him being this _hot_. 

“Thanks,” he says.

I lean forward and kiss him on the forehead. “No problem, love.” (I only call him that when he’s miserable.) Then I ask, “Where’s Bunce? She’s usually here on Saturdays.”

“She left early this morning. I think she’s going to her parents’ house for the weekend. She doesn’t want to catch anything.”

“Did she try any magic on you?”

Simon sniffles. “Yeah. It seemed to wear off every hour or so. I think she spelled her room soundproof around midnight because she couldn’t handle coming back here every hour and my coughing was keeping her awake.”

I release his face and take out my wand. “Let me try.”

Before I get a chance to use any spells, Simon starts coughing again. It goes on. And on. And on. I point my wand at him and say, “ _ **Early to bed and early to rise! Get well soon! Cool down!**_ ”

Simon’s coughing fit ends—I’m not sure if it’s my magic or if he’s simply coughed himself out—and then he reaches for his blankets and pulls them around him. He’s shivering violently and his teeth are chattering. 

I help straighten out his blankets and tuck them around his quaking body. “Did I overdo it with **_Cool down_**?” I ask.

I think Simon shrugs, but it’s hard to tell with all the shivering. “I don’t know. This is kind of how it’s been since yesterday afternoon—way too hot and then way too cold.”

“Is that when this started? Have you been going to class?” I ask. “You should have texted me.” I long to hold him, but that would be counterproductive right now, since he says I radiate cold. It’s tempting to cast _**You’re getting warmer**_ , but I don’t trust myself to use another temperature spell on him.

Simon coughs, but only briefly. “My throat was sore on Thursday, and the congestion and cough started yesterday morning, but the chills and aches didn’t set in until later, so I went to class. When I realized how bad it was, I didn’t want to tell you because I figured you’d come check on me, and I didn’t want to expose you. I forgot you were immune. I should have texted you about the Globe, though. I’m sorry.” He sounds dejected. “I guess I forgot.”

“Simon,” I say, and he smiles a bit, around his chattering teeth. He likes it when I say his first name, which is why I don’t do it often—I don’t want it to stop having the power to cheer him up. “Sod the Globe. You have nothing to apologize for. I wouldn’t expect you to keep track of things in this state. Now, can I get you some tea?”

Simon sniffles and says, “You don’t have to.”

“Snow. You’re ill. I’m your boyfriend. Let me take care of you.”

Simon pulls the blankets around him even tighter and then says, “Okay. Fine. Thanks.”

I haven’t made anything unsupervised in this kitchen before, but I do know where everything is. I get a mug from the cupboard next to the faucet, fill the kettle with water, cast **_Some like it hot!_** on it instead of messing around with the stove, and select a bag of Simon’s favourite herbal tea—cherry—from the cupboard over the microwave. I add multiple tablespoons’ worth of honey to the tea before bringing it to Simon. 

My boyfriend is curled up in a ball, teeth still chattering, blankets covering everything but his face. I stride quickly to his bedside table, set down the tea, and then say, “Would you like me to get you some hot water bottles? Do you have any?”

“Bottom drawer in the kitchen,” he says and then coughs.

I head back to the kitchen and cast _**Simmer down!**_ on the kettle, which is still half full. Then I find the hot water bottles (I have to fish them out from between all the pots and pans that fill the rest of the drawer) and fill them with the no-longer-boiling water. When I return to Simon’s room, I hand him one of the hot water bottles and lift the blankets in order to settle the other one next to his feet. Simon gradually stops shivering, and then he manages to prop himself up on one elbow and take the tea in his other hand. He takes a slow sip, grimaces, sets the mug back down, and burrows back under the bedclothes. He says, “It’s still too hot. But thanks. For everything.”

I feel like I’m looming over the bed, but I don’t want to sit down lest I chill Simon further. “Is there anything else I can get you? Have you eaten?”

Simon sniffles. “I don’t want to eat.” It’s the first time, in eight and a half years of knowing him, that I’ve ever heard him say that. If I didn’t have impeccable hearing, I’d wonder if I misheard him. 

“You need food,” I say. “When was the last time you ate?”

Simon frowns and then says, “Yesterday . . . lunch.”

I sigh. “How does toast sound?”

Simon stares at nothing for a minute and then says, “Fine.”

I return to the kitchen for the third time in 10 minutes. Once I’ve toasted the bread, I butter it generously (Simon eats butter plain when he thinks no one is looking) and cut it into triangles (the way my mother did for me). When I return to Simon’s room, I find him propped on one elbow, drinking tea and no longer shivering. I put the plate of toast on the bedside table, leaving space for Simon to set the tea back down. 

“Thanks.” Simon looks at me. “I don’t want to make you miss the Globe.”

I check the time on my phone. I’d come to get Simon rather early in case we wanted to get in a round of snogging at the flat before heading out. Even now, there are still 45 minutes until the tour, and the theatre is only 25 minutes away by Tube. (Much though I love cars, having one in London is at least as much trouble as it’s worth, and I’m more careful about money than I ever expected to be, since I could get disowned any day.) I look at Simon. “I told you, sod the Globe. We can go some other time.”

Simon sniffles and shakes his head. “It was your idea. You can still go. Enjoy yourself.” He picks up a piece of toast, takes a bite, and manages to swallow; I celebrate internally. 

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” I say.

“I’m not a child. I can handle being alone for a couple of hours. I’ll stay in bed. What could go wrong?” He coughs briefly and huddles into his blankets. 

I fold my arms. “Anything and everything goes wrong around you.”

“Baz. A couple of hours in my own bed. I’ll be _fine_.”

“I don’t really want to go by myself,” I say.

“So don’t,” he replies. “You have friends. I know you do because you spent last night with them. Ring someone.”

In my head, I run through the list of people at the party last night, trying to figure out if there’s anyone I know well enough to want to spend an afternoon alone with them, and if any of those people are likely to be into Shakespeare. I pull up my phone contacts and spot the perfect candidate immediately: Alexis Barrington. She always wears her dirty blonde hair in a long braid, and she sprinkles quotes from Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde into conversations. I’ve seen her reading David Ricardo for fun, but she also dances and likes a nice glass of wine. If she weren’t a Normal, she’d be approximately the sort of girl my father would like me to marry. Not that that could ever happen.

I look at Simon. “Are you sure?”

“For Crowley’s sake, Baz, yes.” He coughs. “You still deserve a nice day. I’ll be fine.”

I step out of Simon’s room, back into the kitchen, and dial Alexis. The phone rings a few times, and I think it’s about to go to voicemail, but instead Alexis picks up and says, “Hey, Basil. What’s on?”

“I’ve got an extra ticket for a tour of the Globe this afternoon. Do you want to come?”

“Maybe. When?”

I read the time from the clock on the stove. “Forty minutes from now?”

“Christ, Basil. Ever heard of planning ahead?”

I sigh. “I was going to go with someone else, but he got sick and didn’t let me know until half an hour ago. Do you want to come, yes or no?”

“Um . . . yes. All right. Meet you there?”

“Sound like a plan.” I hang up.

I peer back into Simon’s room. Half his toast is gone—good. Shakespeare has put me in mind of another healing spell, one from _Much Ado about Nothing_. “Mind if I try something?” I ask.

Simon eyes me suspiciously. “What?”

“A healing spell,” I say. “I’ve never tried it before; it only works on the person the caster is in love with.”

Simon sniffles and then says, “All right.”

I point my wand at him. “ _ **Serve God, love me, and mend!**_ How do you feel?”

He takes an experimental breath through his nose. “Somewhat better, I think. Thanks.”

“Good,” I say. “You’re sure you’ll be all right while I’m gone?”

“Yes. Completely. Have a good time.”

“I’ll come straight back afterward. I promise.”

Simon smiles. “Thanks.”

I take the Tube to St. Paul’s Cathedral and walk the rest of the way to the Globe. Alexis catches up with me on the Millennium Bridge, braid swinging beneath a knit beret, and greets me with “Well met by sunlight, proud Basil.” And she’s right—the day is chilly but clear, my least favourite weather. The sunlight glints off the Thames and the steel of the bridge, but it burns as it strikes me. And the paradox is that I’m still cold. If Simon were here (well, and if I’d cast _**Nothing to see here**_ on him), he’d be holding my hand and switching positions every few minutes, walking first on one side of me and then on the other, so that neither of my hands would get too cold. At Watford and in Hampshire, I just lit fires in my palms, but that’s not an option here in London, with so many Normals around. Today I’ll shiver in silence. 

Alexis lets out a happy sigh as the Globe Theatre—a whitewashed building with an exposed timber frame and the only thatched roof in the city—becomes visible between the waterfront buildings along the Thames that otherwise block it from view. Then she starts reciting: “Set your heart at rest:/The fairy-land buys not the child of me./His mother was a vot’ress of my order . . .” I recognize it as one of Titania’s monologues from _A Midsummer Night’s Dream,_ though that’s more from context than from recalling the exact words. 

When Alexis finishes (“And for her sake I will not part with him”), I respond with Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” soliloquy. We’re off the bridge by this point, but we don’t need to talk to find the Globe. As soon as I finish my _Hamlet,_ Alexis launches into Lady Macbeth’s “unsex me here” soliloquy. She’s reciting quietly but with conviction, and the lines “make thick my blood,/Stop up th’access and passage to remorse” hit me harder than I remember them doing when I read the play at age fifteen. 

When Alexis is done (we’re in the place to wait for our tour now, still five minutes to go), I volley back with “Friends, Romans, countrymen” and try to see neither the Mage nor my mother in Marcus Antonius’ description of Caesar. I feel a bit uncultured for only having the most famous Shakespearean speeches committed to memory—if Alexis knows these relatively less popular ones, she doubtless knows dozens of others—but we memorized Shakespeare in Magic Words class, so the fame of the lines was kind of the point. Spells based on Shakespeare only work if you know the play, so we read several of the more famous ones, and naturally I’ve read several more on my own, but for magickal purposes there’s not much of a point in memorizing lines that aren’t in popular usage. 

Alexis responds to my _Julius Caesar_ with one of Beatrice’s rants from _Much Ado about Nothing_ : “Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly count . . .”

Our tour guide arrives before Alexis is quite done with the speech, and she falls silent when he begins to introduce himself. When he takes us outside to tell us about the process of rebuilding the Globe, though, Alexis turns to me, smiling and flushed, and says, “Thanks. That was fun.”

Our tour guide is an actor, and it’s obvious in the way he carries himself and projects his voice. He tells us that a number of Shakespeare’s plays give clues about how the original Globe must have been set up—for instance, the frequent triple repetition (“Friends, Romans, countrymen”) indicates that the stage probably projected into the audience, so the actors would say one word in each of the three directions where the audience was. (The line sounds better in our tour guide’s voice than in mine.)

Alexis keeps taking pictures on her phone of the mossy thatched roof and the wooden columns of the stage that are painted to look like they’re made of red marble. I don’t take pictures—I’m not really that kind of person—but I drink in the sights as well. There’s a partial roof over the stage, and it’s painted with elaborate Zodiac symbols and images of the heavens. It reminds me that some magickal scholars who have analyzed _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ think that Shakespeare must have been a magician, but others argue that there’s no direct evidence of that. The stage here is enchanting, so much so that I have trouble believing it’s purely the product of Normals—but then, it’s a replica, and no one knows what Shakespeare’s Globe actually looked like because it burned down twice. (That’s what you get for using canon powder for special effects in a wooden building.)

After the tour, Alexis asks if I’d like to get tea. Something in her voice reminds me unpleasantly of Wellbelove, but I try to be polite when I decline and tell her I have something I need to get to. She nods and says, “We should spend more time together sometime, though. This was nice.”

I run a hand through my hair. That’s usually Simon’s move, but I’m uncomfortable. I swallow and say, “Listen . . . Alexis. I think you should know . . . I’m gay.”

Alexis rolls her eyes. “Christ, Basil, _I know._ I want to be _friends_.”

I glance around. “You knew? How?” Simon and I have both gotten Facebook accounts since leaving Watford, but we haven’t posted any photos of us together, and we’ve both set our relationship statuses to private. 

Alexis rolls her eyes again. “Even if, somehow, no one at your tiny little boarding school had a functioning gaydar, I do. And I’m not the only one.”

We start walking toward the Millennium Bridge, and I say, “Who else?”

“Claudia, Reginald, Tony, Emilia . . .” Half my class. _Great._

I sigh. “Thanks for telling me.”

Alexis frowns at me. “Are you upset? Because you don’t need to be. Nobody cares that you’re gay. If I were you, I’d just be glad that I didn’t have to deal with so many awkward coming-out conversations.”

I try not to sneer. A year ago, I would have curled my lip at her and stalked away without another word. Instead, I say, “I suppose.”

“Have other people minded?”

“What?”

“That you’re gay.”

It’s windy now. I hunch forward. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

We finish crossing the Thames in awkward silence, and then Alexis says, “Well, it was nice geeking out about Shakespeare with you. We should spend more time together soon. I’ll text you.” Then, thank snakes, she heads off in the direction of the Blackfriars Tube station, and I can walk to St. Paul’s in peace. For a couple of minutes, I continue freaking out about the fact that apparently half my classmates know that I’m gay. (Although they’re fine with it, and Simon does think that we should be more out, so maybe this is actually a push in the right direction.)

By the time I board the Tube, though, I start worrying about Simon. What if leaving him alone was a bad idea? What if the healing spells have worn off? What if his fever has spiked? Crowley, I didn’t even take his temperature. (The downside of not having been sick in thirteen years is that I have no idea how to deal with illness.) Is Dr. Wellbelove working today? Simon can’t go to a Normal doctor; he has wings and a tail. 

When the Tube reaches my stop, I speed-walk out of the station and run to Simon and Bunce’s flat. My pounding on the door receives no response, so I use _**Open sesame!**_ The kitchen looks the same as it did when I left; I hurry through it and into Simon’s bedroom. Simon is in bed, seemingly asleep, and part of me is tempted to shake him, but I can see his shoulder and wings rising and falling, so I know he’s breathing. His bedclothes are knotted at the foot of the bed, and he looks sweaty. The plate and mug on his bedside table are both empty, thank snakes. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down. Simon is alive. He’s asleep. Sleep is probably the best thing for him right now.

I ease my way out of his room to avoid waking him. (Usually it takes a full brass band to wake Simon, but I don’t know if daytime fever naps play by the same rules.) None of my homework is here, and neither is my laptop. I think about going back to my place to fetch them, but I promised Simon I’d come straight back after the tour of the Globe, and I feel like I should be here when he wakes up. I’ll ask if I can go back to my place to collect my things later tonight, but for now I can find some other way to spend my time. I consider just scrolling through Facebook or the BBC app on my phone, but I can do better than that. I start perusing Bunce’s bookshelves, and finally I find what I’m looking for: a _Complete Works of Shakespeare_. I flip to _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ and start rereading. 

I’m to the part where Titania falls in love with Bottom when I hear whimpers and groans coming from Simon’s bedroom. I set down the book without marking my place and hurry into Simon’s room. His wings are flailing and his tail is thrashing around the bed; his face is screwed up as if in pain. I squat next to his bed and caress his face and hair. His skin is still blazing. 

After a minute or so, Simon’s eyes blink open and his body goes still. “Baz,” he croaks, and then he starts coughing. The coughs convulse his whole body, and I rub his shoulders and his side as he rides out the fit. 

When he’s finally done coughing, I get out my wand and cast _**Early to bed and early to rise, Get well soon,**_ and _**Serve God, love me, and mend**_ again, but I skip _**Cool down**_ given what happened last time. Then I ask, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he says. His eyes are glassy now.

I raise an eyebrow at him.

He sniffles, and he sounds even more congested than he did when I arrived earlier. I wonder if this means that his illness is getting worse, slipping beyond the range of magic, or if I’m simply running out of power. Did I blow it all on trying to heal him earlier? 

“Okay, I feel awful,” Simon admits. “And I hate fever dreams.”

I sit on the very edge of his bed and take his head in my lap. “What did you dream about?”

He closes his eyes. “Well, you were the Humdrum, and then you bit the Mage, except _I_ was the Mage, and then Penny turned into a dragon, and then she ate you, and then she was going to eat _me_ , but then I woke up.”

I stroke his face. “Wow, Snow. Your fever psyche is even more messed up than your regular psyche. I didn’t think that was possible.”

Simon huffs and it turns into a cough. 

“I should probably get you some water,” I say, easing his head out of my lap. “I’ll be right back.”

When I return, Simon says, “You know, this is the first time anyone’s ever done this.”

“Done what? Brought you water?” I ask, handing him the glass.

“Yeah.” He takes a sip, and it makes him cough. He manages to stop and take a few more sips. “No one’s ever taken care of me before. Not like this. Not like I mattered.”

I fill with rage. How could the world possibly have deprived him of something so basic? “No one? Never?”

Simon gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Who would have? The people at the homes would check on me occasionally when I was sick, but it was just another chore for them. And at Watford— _you_ didn’t care, and it’s not like Penny was supposed to frequent our room. Agatha never would have dared try, and the Mage didn’t exactly make a habit of stopping in. Who does that leave?”

I drop to my knees at the head of the bed. This is _my_ fault. I could have taken care of him—I lived with him, and I had no need to fear infection—but instead I allowed him to suffer. I kiss his burning cheek and then kiss it again and again and again. “I’m sorry, love.”

Simon shrinks back, away from my mouth, and I follow his lead and pull back myself. “Don’t apologize,” he says. 

“But I could have helped you, and instead I made your life worse,” I say, pushing his golden curls back from his sweaty forehead.

Simon sighs and it turns into a cough. “That sounds like a summary of our first seven years at Watford. Look. If we start apologizing—or _expecting_ apologies—for all the ways we mistreated each other before we fell in love, we’re never going to be able to move forward and be boyfriends. So don’t apologize. For this or for anything else that happened back then.”

“I just—” I’m surprised to find myself lost for words. That’s usually Simon’s role. “It wasn’t fair to you that no one ever took care of you properly.”

“Baz. It’s fine. I got used to taking care of myself a long time ago. I could do it again now, if you’ve got other things to do. I know how to make tea and toast and stay hydrated, and I’m capable of getting out of bed, even if the room spins a little.”

“Snow. I want to take care of you. How do you feel about dinner?”

Simon sniffles. “Still not hungry.”

I check the time on my phone. Admittedly, it’s only been three hours since I gave him toast. I can wait to push food on him. “Can I do anything else for you? Have you been taking Normal medicine?”

Simon sighs and it turns into a cough. “This is almost certainly viral, so medicine wouldn’t really help.”

“It could make you less miserable, though.” Being immune to diseases means that I don’t know much about healing, but Vera always brought me acetaminophen when I had a headache (I can still get those), and I’ve read the label: pain reliever/fever reducer. I’m pretty sure there are other Normal medicines as well, though I don’t know anything about them. 

Simon gives a one-shoulder shrug. “We don’t keep much of a stock, since usually Penny’s magic solves everything.”

“There’s a Boots pharmacy two blocks from here; I could buy something for you.”

“You—” Simon breaks off, coughing. The coughs rack his body so hard that his wings beat uselessly, stirring up a breeze. When the coughing finally ends, Simon says, “You really don’t have to do that.”

I raise one eyebrow at him. “Snow. You’re violently ill.”

He stares right back. “Baz. It’s just the flu. It’s self-limiting. I’ll call Dr. Wellbelove if it seems to be turning into pneumonia. I do actually have experience being sick.” He sniffles. “I know how to handle this.”

I stroke his burning cheek. “Look. Would you _object_ to medicine?”

Simon shuts his eyes. “Admittedly, no. I just don’t want to feel like you need to spend money on me or put your life on hold to take care of me.”

“I’m going to feel like a complete tosser if I do anything _but_.” I kiss his sweaty forehead and say, “Back soon, love.”

I’ve never purchased medicine before and I have no experience with medicating coughs or congestion, so I have to read the label of every medication I’m considering buying. Thank snakes I read quickly. I finally wind up with three different types of pills—an expectorant, a decongestant, and an analgesic—which I take back to the flat. I _**Open sesame**_ my way in and take the pills straight to Simon’s room. I can’t tell whether Simon is asleep, so I refill his water glass before checking. When I come back with the water, Simon is propped up on one elbow. He watches me as I come in. 

“Thanks,” he says when I set down the glass.

I pick up the bag of pills and take out the three types of medicine. I start to explain to him what they are, and he cuts me off. “I know,” he says. “I told you, I’ve done this before.” He takes a dose of each type of pill, puts the rest of the pills back in the bag, and sets the bag on the floor next to his bed. 

Then he looks at me. “Baz?” It’s his timid voice again. 

“Yes?”

“Would you mind holding me? I mean, if you don’t have other things—”

I remove my shoes. “Simon, I always want to hold you. _Yes_.”

Simon smiles. “Put on pyjamas first.” 

I keep a pair of pyjamas here, since I stay over often enough. They’re silk. Usually I go for satin or fleece, but sharing a bed with Simon is a recipe for overheating, even for someone as bloodless as I am. Simon watches me change, which used to bother me but hasn’t in a long time. Once I’m done changing, Simon scoots back to make room in bed for me. I climb in and brace myself against the headboard. Simon settles his head in my chest. I wrap my left arm around him and stroke his face and hair with my right hand. He wraps an arm around me as well and says, “Thanks, Baz.” 

I kiss his forehead. “For what? Being in bed with you is one of my favorite activities.”

“For everything. For helping me today. For _caring_.” 

“Simon Snow,” I whisper into his hair, “I will always care about you.”

His only answer is a faint hum. I think he might be falling asleep again. I hope so. For all that I need to cook dinner and fetch my things, I will gladly press pause on my life for the chance to hold Simon in my arms. And that will always be true.


End file.
